


Black Boots

by zacharybosch



Series: Bootblacking [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blowjobs, Boot Worship, Bootblacking, But whatever, Dom/sub Undertones, Leather Kink, M/M, Messy Feelings, Post-Episode: s02e09 Shiizakana, as is the case with every single damn season 2 fic, but you know hannibal is composing sonnets to will's boots in his mind palace, it's not overtly worshipful, kind of?, well i don't know if they can count as undertones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8157979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zacharybosch/pseuds/zacharybosch
Summary: A simple sponging down of the boot, first, to remove any large clumps of mud (or blood). Then, saddle soap and a spritz of water on a stiff brush, for a methodical cleaning of every crack and crease. As with all things in his life, Hannibal carried out his task with measured precision and the quiet confidence of a man who is a master at his craft. His various grips on Will’s leg were perhaps a shade firmer than necessary, but Will wouldn’t begrudge him that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> once upon a time several months ago, one of my favourite webcomics made [this](http://www.ohjoysextoy.com/bootblacking/) informative strip about bootblacking, and i was intrigued enough that i spent the next day at work researching it (i'm very glad they didn't have filtering software on the computers then) and the first few paragraphs of this fic were born. then i got stuck on it and didn't really write any more until today.
> 
> what you need to know: bootblacking (cleaning and polishing boots and other leather items) is a Thing for people involved in the Leather community. it's an act of service and is typically done by subs, although i did read an account of a daddy bootblack. it can be a sexual thing, but it's often not. this fic is NOT a how-to for engaging in this kind of activity in a healthy way. it's season 2, will and hannibal are fucked up and messing with each other; don't trust anything they do. i am not part of the Leather community and i have no personal know-how on this subject. all my info comes from the aforementioned webcomic, various blogs i found in my googlings, and this [Bootdog website](http://www.bootdog.com/) \- that's where i saw the wonderful tip that old flannel is good for rubbing boots. and guess who loves wearing old flannel ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Will shifted in Hannibal’s desk chair. He’d thought that he knew what he was in for when Hannibal asked to be of service to him, but instead of kneeling before him and popping the button on his khakis, straightforward sex that was easy enough to figure out, Hannibal had walked silently over to one of his locked cabinets and began fishing around inside. He came back moments later with a smart leather case that he laid at Will’s feet. Inside, boot polish and brushes, soaps and rubbing cloths.

Will’s boots had never been in particularly good condition, and they were a damn sight worse after last night’s encounter with Randall Tier. Hannibal was going to make them shine.

What Will _did_ know was that he shouldn’t be doing this. There were certain lengths that one could go to, certainly, and catching Hannibal was always going to require going above and beyond, but this was something else. Will hadn’t used the services of a Bootblack in years. The reason he’d stopped was the same reason he’d started: sitting in the chair and having a Bootblack work on his leather had been pleasurably intense, and then it had become too intense, and he’d all but removed himself from that scene altogether. He still visited the bars on occasion, when sitting alone in Wolf Trap became too lonely to bear, but he avoided the Bootblackers’ chairs completely. Never rudely, never dismissive, but when a Bootblack spied his worn old leather and asked if they could be of service, it was always unequivocally a ‘no’.

That wasn’t to say that Will didn’t _want_ to. The act itself had been a therapy to him, and on a few occasions, with the right Bootblack, it had been a release. But it was easy to become clingy when a person knelt at your feet and directed the whole of their attention on you, wanting only to provide service and care with no ulterior motives. Will had recognised the danger, and so he withdrew. 

Strange now that this part of his life that he worked so hard to keep private was so easily plucked from the back of his mind, whether by accident or calculated intention. Not so strange that it was Hannibal who had plucked it. When he thought about it, of all the things he and Hannibal had shared lately, a little polish on a pair of old boots was positively mundane, and to any other man it would be so. Maybe Hannibal saw it as little more than a friendly gesture extended to someone who could obviously use it.

A tiny voice in a long-neglected corner of his mind told Will otherwise. Hannibal removed his jacket, waistcoat, tie. Loosened the top two buttons of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves. 

Kneeling on the floor before Will, Hannibal spent some time neatly laying out the necessary tools. When he was finished, he turned to face Will fully and opened his mouth to speak, but was immediately silenced by Will slowly raising his right leg and resting his foot, gently but insistently, against Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal took one long, slow breath, then another, and brought his hands up to run his fingers over Will’s ankle. The leather of his boots was soft with age and scuffed to hell and back. No-one had shown these boots, or their owner, the love they deserved in a long time. 

Hannibal bent his head and took another long inhale. He could smell the neglect, the loneliness, the resentment and the longing all suffused into the leather. He would wash away every last trace.

Anchoring Will’s ankle with one hand, Hannibal slid his other hand up, pushing at the faded khakis. He expected to meet the top of the boots quickly, but they kept on going, and Hannibal’s hand kept on sliding, and then, finally, he felt the cool skin and brush of hair halfway up Will’s calf muscle.

“An interesting choice of footwear, Will.”

Oh, he _knew._ Hannibal knew the exact weight of what he was doing. This was no simple polish and buff. Hannibal was a Bootblack and he was going to provide Will with service. 

Will let it happen.

He shifted his foot and pressed it a little harder against Hannibal’s shoulder. “I think you know what to do with it, though.”

“I do.”

Hannibal set his fingers to the knot of laces and slowly began to work it undone. He took his time, sliding the frayed cords through the eyelets with reverence, and placed the laces in a neat roll next to his tools when he was done. 

A simple sponging down of the boot, first, to remove any large clumps of mud (or blood). Then, saddle soap and a spritz of water on a stiff brush, for a methodical cleaning of every crack and crease. As with all things in his life, Hannibal carried out his task with measured precision and the quiet confidence of a man who is a master at his craft. His various grips on Will’s leg were perhaps a shade firmer than necessary, but Will wouldn’t begrudge him that.

“How is it you know how to do this?”

Hannibal pondered a while before he answered, never breaking his steady rhythm brushing soap into the toe of Will’s boot. “In my youth, I spent some time in Berlin. I learned a great many things there.”

“Who was your mentor?”

Hannibal’s hand paused, briefly. “No-one you know.” It seemed as though Hannibal was about to say more, but with a slight shake of his head he deftly shifted the topic. “Why have you let these boots fall into such disrepair, Will? They’ve not felt a loving touch in far too long.”

“Is that what this is? A loving touch?”

“It can be if you want it.”

“But I don’t think you love me. I think you love trying to throw me off-kilter with this… display. I think you’re using service and submission as a power play to make sure you come out on top.” Will kicked Hannibal’s hand off the toe of his boot and pressed the filthy sole against Hannibal’s crotch. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

Hannibal made no attempt to move Will’s foot. “You’re wrong.”

“I don’t believe you.” Will moved his foot back up to Hannibal’s shoulder, let his thighs splay open a little wider. “But carry on anyway.”

Hannibal worked methodically over one boot, then moved to the other. When he guided Will’s foot from his shoulder to rest back down on the floor, he watched, open and predatory, the shift of muscles in his thighs. He’d seen Will’s bare thighs on a handful of occasions, and he knew them to be thick, powerful; the kind of thighs that could snap a man’s neck, were their owner so inclined.

The second boot sponged down and brushed with soap, Hannibal moved back to the first, now dry. 

“I need to give this boot a thorough wipe down now, Will, however I fear that my cloths are a little old and threadbare. It’s been some time since I’ve done this and I’ve neglected the maintenance of my equipment.” 

He was going there. He was really going there. 

“In the past, I’ve had good experience using old flannel cloth.” 

It was utterly shameless.

“If I may…?”

Will looked down pointedly at the neatly folded cloth that sat next to Hannibal’s brush. It was in perfect condition. Then he looked back at Hannibal.

“You may.”

Will made no move, so Hannibal came up and forward on his knees, between Will’s thighs, and began to unbutton his flannel shirt. His touch was unhurried, and barely on the right side of what could be considered appropriate, as if anything about the situation was appropriate to begin with. Will watched him closely, and arched his back just a little when Hannibal pulled his shirt from where it was tucked into the back of his trousers. Hannibal’s face betrayed nothing, or as close to nothing as he could get when Will was letting his hips roll and his arms flex as the shirt was drawn over his shoulders, down and off and into Hannibal’s lap.

The heat of the moment settled, and Hannibal shifted back and continued with his work.

Will had thought that he’d be able to maintain enough presence of mind to stay in control of the situation, that he’d be able to make a calculated display of indulging Hannibal’s desires. But it had been so long, and he’d forgotten how _good_ it felt. Especially when being serviced by a Bootblack who knew what they were doing, and Hannibal knew. To see Hannibal bent over his boots, rubbing them with Will’s own shirt, was a particular and exquisite pleasure quite unlike anything he’d experienced before.

Then it was time for polish. 

Will’s boots gleamed with a high shine. After applying the polish, Hannibal had used a wet cloth for buffing. He had a spritzer of water, still mostly full, but had opted to spit on the cloth anyway. Will had seen Bootblacks do that before, but Hannibal’s display was all the more arousing for the fact that spitting seemed such an obscene, ugly thing for him to do.

“There. I’d say these are good enough to eat off, if one were so inclined.”

“Are you?”

Hannibal sat back on his heels and levelled a smug look at Will. “Am I what?”

“So inclined.”

Hannibal said nothing, just kept the smug curve in his mouth as he flicked his eyes down to the shiny toes of Will’s boots.

Will knew he was in way too deep already, and that nothing he did now would make much difference. He knocked one foot against Hannibal’s knee. “Lick it.”

He’d expected Hannibal to cradle his leg, lift it up and position his foot just so and make a show of licking one long, wide stripe up his ankle. But instead, Hannibal prostrated himself on the floor, hands splayed wide on the carpet, and he licked at the toe of Will’s boot like a dog.

Will couldn’t help himself then, and he let a breathy moan rush out of his mouth as he palmed his cock through his trousers. The evening might have begun with each man looking to unsettle and push at the other with brash displays of intimacy, but what was left between them now was little more than raw animal need.

Will twitched his foot upwards slightly, and Hannibal needed no further instruction. He crawled forward, let his tongue follow the shape of Will’s boot, nipped at his ankle. Further up, leaving a wet, messy trail behind him, until he came to the top of the boot and looked up at Will, questioning, lips hanging parted and shiny and pink.

A hand in his hair, tight but not painfully so, guiding him up and in.

Will popped the button on his fly with one hand and pulled out his cock, throbbing hard and leaking at the tip. He stroked it once, twice, spreading slickness down the length of it. Hannibal’s composure really cracked then, and he pulled at the fist still held tight in his hair, desperate to take Will in his mouth and choke him down.

But Will held him fast.

He’d already acknowledged that he’d crossed the line, and that anything more that he did wouldn’t make any difference. But still there was the voice ringing in his ears, telling him that he shouldn’t be here, that this was too much, way too much, that he’d crossed the line but that didn’t mean he had to go even further.

But then he looked at Hannibal, at his hair pulled taut and his shiny, wet lips and his eyes blown black with carnal pleasure. And with his free hand, he grabbed the base of his cock and guided Hannibal’s mouth onto it.

Hannibal Lecter was born to suck cock, Will was fairly sure of this. He tried to be disgusted that this mouth that was on him, this was the same mouth that had eaten human flesh, but he couldn’t bring himself to care when it felt this hot and wet and tight and _good._ He had both hands coiled in Hannibal’s hair and rhythmically lifted his hips off the chair again and again to fuck into his mouth. The obscene gagging noises that Hannibal made just spurred Will on and made him, impossibly, even harder. Saliva and pre-cum ran down the length of his cock and over his balls, soaking into his trousers.

As Will felt himself draw near to the edge of his pleasure, his thrusts became quicker, rougher, sloppier, Hannibal’s hands scrabbling for purchase on his thighs and eventually just digging his nails in, hard. Will came with a shout that trailed off into a series of breathless moans, shooting his load half down Hannibal’s throat and half dripping out of his mouth. Hannibal swallowed what he could and let the rest roll, slowly, over his chin and down his neck.

When Will came back to himself - seconds or minutes or maybe even hours later, who even knew any more - Hannibal was still kneeling before him looking smug as ever. Or as smug as one could look with their hair in a snarl and cum drying on their chin. Will got up out of the chair, tucked himself back inside his trousers, and picked his shirt up off the floor.

“Thank you for your service, Hannibal.”

And he left.

**Author's Note:**

> come tell me on [tumblr](http://zacharybosch.tumblr.com) about how you didn't know you were totally into boots either until you read that webcomic!


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